


Serious Google Time

by theaeblackthorn



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Drunkenness, M/M, Masturbation, Porn, Tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-04
Updated: 2014-04-04
Packaged: 2018-01-18 04:38:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1415386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theaeblackthorn/pseuds/theaeblackthorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He lets go of his dick, because this picture can't just exist out there by itself. There have got to be more, and if there are, he needs to be looking at them right the hell now. Serious Google time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Serious Google Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Llama](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Llama/gifts).
  * Inspired by [F. lascivus (aka The Porn Fairy)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1124579) by [Llama](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Llama/pseuds/Llama). 



> Firstly a massive thank you to the mods of the challenge for being so understanding <3
> 
> Thank you thank you fardareismai2 for beta'ing this so quickly!
> 
> To Llama: I hope you like it! And I had a total blast reading through all of your fics <3

Stiles stumbles into his room; he trips and tries to catch himself on his desk chair, but it spins and rolls out of his way. His bed is soft and good under him, the springs creaking as he lands on it. 

" _It's hard to look, right at you baby._ " He giggles to himself, because the world is spinning and his skin is buzzing and he's drunk drunk drunk. 

Humming he tries to kick his shoes off without getting up, because urgh, moving-- he can't be bothered to move. His foot slips and he scrapes his leg, scrabbling harder to get his shoe off. 

The first shoe drops with a thump and he shushes it, going for the other one. Whisper-singing is the shit. " _Your stare was holdin', ripped jeans, skin was showinnnnn', hot night, wind was blowin', where do you think you're going, baby?_ "

Urgh, stupid people and their stupid faces. He can still feel Lydia pressed up against him, drunk and dancing because she was one of the only other people there that can actually drink and get drunk. 

But it's not Lydia, no, it's Derek with his stupid stubble, and his ridiculously well-fitting clothing, and you know, nothing's fair, because Stiles never likes anyone that's actually in his league. 

He smacks his lips, a drink, he needs a drink, it should probably be water, because, well, water is good and he's thirsty and all the liquor in this house is far too locked up. He's not tired, no, he's worked up, hours of watching Derek, in clothes, and scowling and just, Derek. Whatever. It's not like he has a thing. 

He might of kind of have a thing. Just a small one. Maybe. 

Fuck. Well there's no one but him, his hand, and his internet connection. There's porn on the screen when he turns the laptop on, of course there is, he's a seventeen year old boy. 

Archive page of a tumblr, _catholic boys in trouble_ , yeah, he doesn't really want to be around if his dad ever sees his internet history. His hands are uncoordinated as he scrolls down the page, alcohol making him clumsier than normal. 

He likes jerking off when he's drunk, because it numbs his senses a little and makes it last that little bit longer. When he's sober there's spunk on his boxers almost as soon as he gets his hand on his dick. 

He scrolls down the wall of porn, small pictures moving too fast, or too slow--that guy's too muscley, that one too young, too bored-looking, too hairless... Maybe it's time to try _cocktase_ , he's about to backspace out of there, when, _oh shit_ , his dick twitches with interest, the press of denim against his cock is annoying. Balancing the laptop on his knee, he pops the button and loosens them enough to get a hand on his dick. 

The computer starts to slide off his lap, and Stiles squeezes his balls trying to save it. _Ow_. He's not ashamed to admit that the guy on the screen looks so much like Derek he kinda wants to die a little. The guy's face is tilted away, torso stretched out, and hand sinking into his jeans, a teasing little thatch of hair. 

Fuck. Stiles knocks his lamp over reaching for the lotion. He stills until he's sure he hasn’t woken his dad up. 

Derek's chest is just like that, he's seen it enough times because the guy can't keep a freakin' shirt on. Even when he's wearing one of those stupid wife-beaters barely anything's hidden, it's like Nipples R Us. The guy's a little less waxed or shaved or whatever than Derek is, and Stiles likes it. 

There's just enough hair that he can imagine it rough against his skin, maybe Derek would fuck him from behind and he'd feel it sweat-slick against his back, maybe he'd get to feel the friction on his chest instead as Derek pressed close, trapping his cock between them. 

Stiles's dick twitches, and he starts jerking it, slow and steady, teasing strokes to get him started as he zones in on the picture. 

The jeans are just as fucking tight as Derek's are, and Stiles doesn't know how his dick manages to live in them. His own are baggy and, yeah, no. But he's not complaining because Derek's _ass_ , fuck, he could write sonnets about that ass. 

Or not, because he's not fucking Shakespeare, but he could talk about it for a long time, okay? He's wasted many hours thinking about it, like how there's probably a smattering of hair on it, because Derek can't shave everywhere, right? And it probably flexes, and a dimple, it totally has a dimple. 

He hits back in a new tab and tries to spot an ass, yeah, yeah that one, that's a total fucking Derek ass. 

The things he'd do to that ass. For that ass, whatever. 

Flicking back to the other tab he focuses on the hands, they're... He squints at the picture again, this guy isn't just a lot like Derek... he's a **lot** like Derek. Like, he looks like Derek in every way that matters, and kinda the ones that don't, too. Stiles tries to strain into the darkness where the guy's face should be, into the shadows that are possibly hiding Derek Fucking Hale from him. 

Fuck those shadows. 

He scrolls down, looks for the tags on the post, saying who it is. Nada. His dick's hard and hot in his hand, but he needs to know, okay? He just needs to have a quick look, because this just became like a thousand times hotter if it's a picture of Derek he's looking at. 

Following the source, he jumps to the original post, no tags. He flicks through a few reblogs. Reverse image searches. Nope, nothing, nada. A picture can't just exist on the internet without someone knowing who it is. 

He lets go of his dick, because this picture can't just exist out there by itself. There have got to be more, and if there are, he needs to be looking at them right the hell now. Serious Google time. But first, he's going to send this picture to himself, because shit son, he is not losing this image. Not at all. This is going in his eternal spank bank because that is Derek Fucking Hale, or he's not Stiles Stilinski.

Urgh, he's tired, he lies on his front, propped up on his pillow. He needs a reference shot of Derek to compare this to. For science. He is looking at Derek for science. Or something. He catches himself rubbing his dick against the mattress at he looks at Derek's police file. This is stupid, he's way too far gone on Derek Fucking Hale. 

The mugshot is old, and not his body, but it's the best picture he's got. The jaw. The jaw's the same, the same curve and the same pattern of stubble, kinda, the mugshot's grainy. Fuck. 

He scrolls through the blog that posted the pic, finds more pics of guys that look kinda like this guy, but don't, and none of them look as much like Derek, and there are no tags. _What is wrong with these people?_

His laptop's getting hot as hell, but he needs to know who it is in the picture, fucking infinite scrolling bullshit. 

Just one more month. 

It's got to be in here. 

There's got to be another picture of Derek-Not-Derek. 

Somewhere. 

Because.

He deserves it. He likes Derek. He likes Derek's stupid face. Derek's stupid body. He's spent all day looking at it, all night, whatever, and he just wants to know if it's Derek Freaking Hale he's jerking it too.

*

Stiles wakes up with his face pressed into his pillow and the hangover from hell. His laptop's in front of him and he is not ready for this shit right now. He needs painkillers, water and more sleep.

And less fucking sunlight. 

He closes the curtains and curls up into a ball. 

Fucking whisky. 

*

The second time Stiles wakes up, it's with less of a headache and enough time to try and piece together what the hell happened last night. He doesn't remember going to bed, he's got no idea how he ended up passed out in his bed with his laptop on the floor, but he can probably guess.

His phone's ringing and it's fucking obnoxious. Scott. 

"Hey bro!" 

"Jesus!" Stiles complains, holding his head. "Have some respect for the hungover human here."

Scott doesn't sound in the least contrite. "Sorry Stiles. Did you have a good time last night? What happened? I didn't see you leave...?"

Stiles wrinkles his nose and tries to feel out a glass of water. He knows he left one here earlier, when he got the pain pills. He's still fully clothed under the duvet, and way too fucking hot. 

"I have no idea. I came home and..." He glances at the laptop on the floor, his jeans undone and base of his cock just visible out of his pushed down boxers. "Probably tried to jerk off. Urgh. My head." 

Scott laughs, because that's the kind of bro he is. "Well get up, because I'm at home, it's a beautiful day, and Lydia says we can use her pool." 

He snuggles further under his duvet, kicks off his jeans. "Urgh no, sunlight, loudness. I think I'm just gonna..."

"No way, Stiles! Come to the pool, it'll be fun!" 

"No," Stiles whines. "Nononono. Bed."

"Stile--" 

Stiles hangs up. Sleep, he is going to sleep some more. Maybe jerk off when he feels better, and, that's that. He will not sleep the day away. He won't. He has plans to jerk off, that'll get him up later.


End file.
